


No Melody Sweeter Than You

by AtropaBelladonna



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtropaBelladonna/pseuds/AtropaBelladonna
Summary: Marco Bott is an immigrant to the United States from Cuba.Jean Kirstein is an immigrant to the United States from France.Both linguistically and musically talented, a seedy bar in a bad part of town throws these two together as the music plays, so will a burgeoning relationship. Did the stars align, or has fate allowed these two to find happiness after rejection.Set in 1989. Music is Sultans of Swing by Dire Straits.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2019





	No Melody Sweeter Than You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonoclePony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/gifts).



The strings resonated softly in the surprisingly quiet bar tonight as Marco played to the crowd, simply warming up with a few chords and scales as for the moment he wasn't on officially. The guitar was in-tune, the job paid decently but it wasn't about the money, at least not for the Cuban. The music made people happy, helped them forget about their troubles for a while and sometimes when he really got into the swing of things, his own troubles disappeared too. His parents back home on that farm, his father ruling through fear and retaining control through the belt, even though the punishment was far harsher than any crime he committed.

The guilt was still there in his heart, leaving his mother behind. The fact that as a child, there were nights he wished that the drinking would finish the bastard off, so they didn't have to pay for the fact that he fucked up his own life so badly. The fact that he spent the latter half of the 1980's saving every peso he could get his hands on from his job to get tickets to America, to make a better life for himself. But his education meant nothing here, he was an immigrant. Same as the millions in America scrabbling for the dream that hadn't existed in a long, long time. Now he saved to get his mother out of that situation, perhaps his 1 bedroom flat would be smaller than the farm back home, but it wouldn't come with the risk of being beaten black and blue.

The mother-of-pearl inlaid to the frets of the neck of his guitar glowed under the tacky blue and pink neon. Testing a few chords, he softly began to play a recent song he had grown to like. "You get a shiver in the dark, It's raining in the park, but meantime: South of the river, you stop and you hold everything. A band is blowin' Dixie, double-four time. You feel alright when you hear that music play..." He sung softly into the microphone, tapping his foot to keep time as the chords flowed naturally, his fingers moving automatically.

The blonde Frenchman had entered the bar with the intention of getting as drunk as possible. He was done with his damn parents too, fuck them. A passive aggressive letter in the mail with a leaflet about the AIDS epidemic the government seemed determined to do fuck all about. Fewer partners, less risk... Of course they assumed he was sleeping around. He was a "faggot" in his father's words. The word he preferred was gay, but his deeply Christian parents considered people like him to be the spawn of satan, foolish harlots who had been seduced by the Devil himself.

Jean would rather be in Hell with everyone else then with the pious, preaching angels up in the pearly gates. Downing his second scotch and feeling the familiar burn on his tonsils, he soon ordered a third but didn't gulp it down. His laser-focused attempt at getting drunk was distracted by singing. Unlike most of the trash they played these days, this guy was good. And fucking gorgeous, he didn't mind admitting to himself.

That mocha skin and freckles... The way he strummed that guitar. It was like a dance only the two of them could see or even comprehend, everyone else were just irrelevant pieces of background. Like stick figures drawn by children, only he and that guitarist were real in this moment, this moment he wanted to last forever. He had to get the guy a drink, even if he wasn't like him. "Bet he kisses like an angel." Jean smirked to himself, sipping from the glass in his hand, the cold ice on his upper lip doing nothing to dampen the rising passion that threatened to set him alight.

"Check out Guitar George, he knows all the chords. But it's strictly rhythm; he doesn't want to make it cry or sing... If any old guitar is all he can afford, when he gets up under the lights to play his thing. And Harry doesn't mind if he doesn't make the scene. He's got a daytime job, he's doing alright. He can play the honky tonk like anything, savin' it up for Friday night." Marco continued to sing Sultans of Swing, one of his favourites from Dire Straits and the crowd seemed to be loving it, especially the pretty cute blonde in the back with the scotch. Pretty thin, that smirk on his face was positively devilish. This wasn't love at first sight, love took time and work. This was pure, unadulterated, sinful lust. That's what his own father beat him for most, liking other men. It was a sin, something that was to be beaten out of him by force and through pain. Perhaps this other guy could understand. Marco wasn't publicly out, that was too dangerous. But the way this man was looking at him and how he was blushing in response as the song ended, he might not need to.

Soon packing up his guitar an hour later and pocketing the crumpled notes, Marco was surprised when the cute blonde approached. "Hey." Jean stated confidently, smiling a little. The alcohol was giving him a buzz, this was good. The bar was shutting down. "Hey... Was tonight's performance okay?" Marco asked, a little nervous. "It was great. I really liked your rendition of Baba O'Riley and Sultans of Swing. your chordwork is amazing. I'm Jean Kirstein, fellow guitarist." The blonde stated, holding his hand out. "Marco Bodt." Marco replied with a smile, glad to meet a fellow musician.

"That amp looks heavy, do you want some help with that?" Jean immediately offered, The Cuban nodded in response and smiled, a dorky smile that made Jean feel warm and content as he helped load Marco's stuff into the back of the beaten-up sedan. "Thanks for the help, do you need a lift anywhere?" He offered, keen to repay the guitarist for his help in loading all his stuff when normally he did it himself. "My apartment is a few blocks away, down Costello Avenue." Jean explained, it was in the avenue over from Costello. Just in case this cutie turned out to be the next serial killer, it was always the one you suspected least.

Driving over to his own apartment to put his stuff away, Marco got his key out from his jeans and tried to turn it in the lock to no effect. "¡Chingada madre!" (Shit) He cursed his native tongue, looking at the eviction notice and ripping it off in disgust. "Quel charme." Jean replied, speaking some French. "You speak French?" Marco replied, being multilingual. "Sí, y algo de español también." (Yes, and some Spanish.) Jean added with a smirk, Marco went pink in the cheeks when he realized Jean might have understood his curse-filled statement.

"Which is your native tongue?" The Cuban asked, it was nice to meet someone else who could speak another language. "French. I'm Parisian, born and raised for 10 years before emigrating here. What about you?" Jean asked, getting in to the conversation. "Cuban. Raised in a farm near Santa Clara." He grinned, getting back in the car. "On a more depressing note, my landlord evicted me. Stubborn old bitch." He huffed, thoroughly annoyed.

"Well, we can go sort her out in the morning. I guess you'll be sleeping at my place." Jean stated in an offhand manner, a slight smile on his face as he thought of the possibilities. "A-Are you sure?" Marco was surprised by the offer and a little flustered. He didn't have any money to pay Jean as rent... "Hey, I've been where you are. My parents kicked me out a few years back, took me a while but I'm standing on my own two feet." The car was started and directions were given. After finally getting the door open after dropping his keys twice due to his state of inebriation, Jean's apartment was now Marco's too. Not that there was much there.

The brown and white wallpaper was peeling, the carpets needed cleaning so badly they'd have probably left the place in disgust of their own accord if they could. The sofa looked as if it had been someone's punching bag for a few years. On the armchair stood an old guitar, clearly well-loved since she'd been placed with care. The strings were new, the wood polished. Picking up the guitar and playing a few simple chords to prove he hadn't been lying, Jean soon set the guitar down again.

Marco ran outside, Jean following to make sure he wasn't going to get mugged since this part of town was rough like used sandpaper. Grinning as Marco grabbed his acoustic guitar from the parking lot, the two began playing in earnest, uncaring that Miss McMillan next door was thumping on the wall. She was a problem neighbour and annoying her was one of the few pleasures Jean had due to her irritating little terirer constantly yapping at him and trying to bite his ankles.

A few more shots and they lay on the bed, which was as rickety as everything else in the run-down apartment. The tap had stopped dripping after Marco used his exceptional strength to properly close the tap to Jean's astonishment who had been battling with the thing for the longest time, having cursed at it in a multitude of languages when his temper flared.

"Why did your parents kick you out?" Marco asked, now a little more loose and relaxed after a few shots of whisky. "Found out I was gay and took it about as well as evangelical bible-fucking nutjobs couldn't." Jean admitted freely, not caring what others thought of him. "Cunts." Marco spat, having no time for bigots anymore. "My own dad was a shithead too. Found me kissing another boy and whipped me with a belt." The Cuban admitted, inhibitions lowered.

"Cunt. Let's drink to both having shit dads." Both downing another shot, Jean and Marco turned to face each other, half naked. "We should be getting to sleep." Jean stated, blushing as his fingertips brushed Marco's hand. "Can't. Has anyone told you you're gorgeous Jean?" Marco asked, his reservations about his own sexuality were as smashed as he was. "Not until now. You're gorgeous too." Giving Marco a sloppy kiss and giggling, Marco soon returned the favour as Jean lay on his back and the Cuban farmer got on top.

Marco woke up at the crack of dawn with a headache in his head, arms still firmly around Jean. He remembered bits of what happened. Jean had told him to use a condom, which was still there. Soon binning it in the waste paper basket overflowing with cigarette ash and empty cartons of cigarettes, Marco soon drank several glasses of water. The kitchen was a mess, might as well do something to help.

Jean only woke up when Marco opened the curtains. "Ow... Too much sunlight." He mumbled under the covers. "I made breakfast." Marco said cheerily, the water having helped his hangover somewhat. Jean peeked out from the covers, slowly adjusting to the light and looking at the tray. "Huevos Rancheros?" He asked, surprised. "Mmm, I hope you like them." Marco nodded, a sweet smile on his face as Jean shovelled a forkful of the spicy tomato sauce and fried egg into his mouth. "Mon dieu... Tres bien." (My god, it's very good) Jean stated in hs native tongue, the Cuban knew what that meant and it made him happy.

Getting up and taking a shower, Jean was surprised that the bathroom was so... clean. He didn't remember it being this clean before. Walking into the kitchen, he was startled by the change. "You... cleaned up?" Jean asked, a little surprised. "Thought I might as well help out." Marco stated, putting the dry dishes away. "If you're going to cook and clean, I won't be charging you rent. I assume this is going to be the arrangement for the foreseeable future." Jean offered, putting his dirty dish in the sink.

"I think that's most acceptable." Marco nodded, the two sharing a less sloppy kiss. The rent arrears, their parents... None of it mattered so long as they had each other.


End file.
